Nurse Amara slipped in later to let me know she’d send the funeral wagon up tomorrow afternoon, then gave solemn condolences before wearily going on to her next patients.
In the glow of candlelight, I sat and read Retta’s Bible, praying for her, and for me and my folk, dozing off as the pulls and sighs of the long night shifted into the fatter hours of slumber.
Several times, I jerked awake thinking I heard someone crying. Rubbing tired eyes, I found my lashes wet. It weren’t long till my lids grew heavy again, my tears dried, and the leaving hours of night called me back asleep.
The next morning, Junia neighed outside and I raised my head from the table. Sunrise filtered through the windows and skated in between the cracks of ol’ weathered boards, haloing over Retta’s bed of eternal slumber.
I sat at the table, thinking. If I went to town and told folk of her passing, it could bring the law down on me. And without Retta, I would surely be sent to the House of Reform. But Retta deserved to have her friends pay their respects. I was torn and tapped the worrisome thoughts onto the table.
As Amara promised, the funeral wagon arrived a little past noon and the men carefully placed Retta in a pine coffin.
I grabbed my gloves and Retta’s Bible, looked around one last time and quietly closed the door. Following the four men in the wagon, we rode toward Retta’s family cemetery.
The men dug hard and fast, and after they lowered the cheap pine box into the ground and filled the hole with dirt, one of them, a young colored man, came over and removed his cap. “Ma’am, I’m Leon Payne. Me and the fellers wondered if there was anyone other than you?” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, looking around the small graveyard.
I’d hoped her nephew would come, but the ornery man had gone on a tear. I wondered if Amara had published the news to others. It was as if the world didn’t know Loretta Adeline Adams existed, scratched out a life to make a difference—a talented seamstress to many in these hills, mother to her nephew, nanny to me, and loyal friend. She deserved better for her ninety-two years of service to others, and the guilt of not letting others know last night weighed heavily on my heart.
Talk traveled fast in the small town, and even faster when it was bad news. I prayed Retta would forgive me for not telling folk, but I had to try to keep myself from going to prison. Somehow, I had to get out of the ugly grip the state held on me, and if this allowed me more time, it meant another day of freedom.
“Ma’am, is there no one else?” Mr. Payne inquired again. “I’m happy to wait. Send one of the fellers into town to let the townsfolk know about her burial so they can come out and pay their respects.”
“No, sir, just me. And she asked for a private burial,” I lied. Pulling out money, I passed him fifteen dollars for their labor and another ten for the box and added four more dollars. “Is this enough, sir?”
“Sure is, thanks.” He pocketed the money and said, “I sometimes ride a ministry circuit. I’d be honored to say a prayer, lift Miss Adams up into her Heavenly Father’s arms.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Payne.” I turned one last time, searching past the smattering of crumbly headstones for him. Likely, Alonzo was passed out in his bed, or a town alley.
The men gathered around the fresh-dug grave and took off their caps and bowed their heads as Mr. Payne recited Corinthians 15:51–57. “‘Death is swallowed up in victory… O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’”
Mr. Payne gave a fine eulogy, one that honored Retta, and I was grateful. When the man finished, he sang a dirge, slow and quiet. The other three men joined in, lifting the sweet, mournful song into the hills.
I peered up to the blue endless skies and mouthed, Don’t leave me, Retta, Don’t go.
After the song, Mr. Payne came over and laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. The other men passed in front of me, dropping whispered condolences.